


Planning is for Imbeciles

by RurouniHime



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Drama, Drunkenness, First Kiss, Humor, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:30:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos never puts down roots. Except maybe this time. If Duncan will just cooperate, that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Planning is for Imbeciles

**Author's Note:**

> I marked this one as AU because it does not take into account any of the events in Highlander: The Source (the most recent movie). THERE ARE GENERAL SPOILERS FOR METHOS HIMSELF. Also, there is a bunch of swearing in this. ^_^

**Planning is for Imbeciles**

 

His plane touched down at 9:30 AM sharp, out of a sunny sky with the occasional scudding cloud and a light, mischievous breeze. He splurged on a taxi— though he was looking forward to re-ingratiating himself with the Metro— and came up upon the Institut du Monde Arabe in a muddle of Saabs and honking Citroens. A right, a left, another right, and there was a quiet and colorful side street with Notre Dame's prettier side just visible between the furthest two apartment buildings.

Methos got out, shut his eyes and took a deep, satisfying breath. Paris had never felt so much like home.

"Honesty, honesty, honesty," he muttered, gripping his duffle and crossing the rest of the road in good spirits. "Told Mac you'd work on that, didn't you?"

Maybe, he was willing to concede while he was the only one listening, home had more to do with the particular residents of Paris than the city itself. If he squinted.

Oh, but he certainly hadn't done _this_ in a while. He owned property almost everywhere on earth, including here in Paris. Old property. Dusty property. Snooty property that likely hated him for becoming too plebeian. But it had all been the fruit of lengthy investments and careful consolidation of ancient goods. He'd never purchased property on a whim.

Certainly not a brand new infant apartment, at any rate.

Five thousand years was ample time to discover the trustworthy realtors in any city. By 1:00 PM, Methos, alias Aaron Dunwood, owned a chic, dashing studio apartment high enough in the air to overlook the three triumphs of the city: the Seine, the cathedral and that bloody tower. Of course, Methos thought there were more than three triumphs, but try telling modern realty agents that when they were in full-on promotion mode.

He'd have to work on getting his nicer furniture out of storage in Istanbul. For the moment, a few calls to various delivery services and storage facilities in town would suffice, and had him directing foot traffic up and down, in and out of his apartment for the next two hours. It wasn't all that large a space but it did fit his gigantic mahogany and cherry wood bookshelves as if they had been made for it. And a modest bed, of course, but nothing else. One mustn't jump the gun.

At 5:37, Methos looked around his sparsely furnished studio, said, "Oh, what the hell," and got on the phone to Istanbul.

A small, mortal part of his brain tried to remind him that he was being awfully cavalier about taking root in such a permanent fashion. But at five thousand-or-something years of age, it didn't seem like all that much of a risk anymore. He knew Duncan MacLeod was still living in Paris. All the other uncertainties seemed so sweetly trivial.

Had to be the lack of sleep talking.

Methos waved it away and donned his coat, tucking his sword home, to traverse the dusky streets in search of food. A soft, clean fog was misting about and the pavement glittered as lights flickered on, streetlamps came up, and the sky grew dark enough to let the stars prick through. Methos took his time circling Notre Dame, crossing bridges over black waters, rushes of memory coming and going like the breeze that curled at his hair. He stopped halfway across the Pont de l'Archevêché and leaned against the damp railing. Down the river, houseboats rolled gently in the current. The raw, haunting sound of a violin echoed from one of the squares by the cathedral.

Methos squinted until he could recognize proper landmarks downriver, the arc of another bridge and the warmly lit, familiar silhouette of a barge. The prickling sensation of something other than Presence that teased within the pit of his belly was familiar as well, and welcome.

Methos smiled to himself. "Not a mistake, coming back."

It had come upon him suddenly, two mornings ago over a cup of warm Darjeeling and a newspaper in Farsi, but he knew himself better than anything and so knew it had really been stealing up for some time. The actual decision to purchase the plane ticket and sell his airy home in the bustle of Istanbul, however, had been as close to whim as he'd come in decades. It just… felt right. Like nothing had in centuries.

Gazing at the far off lights of the barge and smelling the spice scents of Paris, Methos couldn't imagine Duncan understanding right away. But it was comforting that he himself knew at last, a strange fit in the dangerous realm of old age, but a true fit nonetheless.

It was high time he made a go of things, he decided. It was Paris, city of romance and enchantment, after all, and how could things go wrong when he felt so right about everything?

"You, my friend, are getting too old for hesitation," he admonished himself. His spirits only rose as they had done for the last two days.

Last ten years, technically, if he really thought about it. Aside from the occasional bump in the road, he'd been in a relatively good mood since Duncan MacLeod shouldered his way into his life.

Never mind his old haunts. Seers and psychotics and the like. Not today, not tonight or this week, or ever, would they be coming here again. It was the most naïve of thoughts, but damn his flowery mood, it didn't stand a chance in hell of not being true. Not during the first real contentment he'd felt this century.

It felt very fulfilling, and very titillating, to hold his friends' immediate futures in his hands. They had no idea he was here. He couldn't stop the grin. Not tonight, certainly. But tomorrow, he would go. See Joe. See Duncan. Announce his presence as he so loved to do and get things rolling properly.

* * *

Le Blues Bar had undergone some renovations and looked eye-catchingly new. As soon as Methos stepped through the door into the soft interior lighting, however, Joe Dawson's indomitable touch wove around him. Invited itself right into his blood stream, the cheeky, bastardy upstart. He looked around: golden-brown stretch of bar, empty stage, cozy scattering of vacant tables.

Joe perched behind the bar, tuning guitar music over unseen speakers. "I'm sorry, bar's closed," he said in American-accented French. Methos smirked and took a stool at the end nearest him, leaning casually over the bar.

"And he speaks French now?" he said in English.

Joe turned around immediately. The grin that lit his features was astoundingly childlike. "Aaron Dunwood, which plane did you just fall off of? It's great to see you!"

"Oh, you know," Methos answered, game for it if Joe was, and relieved that some things never changed. "The wind takes me and I blow forth."

"Hot air, huh?" Joe's smirk was all too memorable. "Now that, I remember. How the hell are you?"

"I'm afraid I've gone and done something a bit untoward, Joe."

"Again?"

Methos nodded, eyeing the pint that Joe was measuring out. He reached for the glass and drew a sip, then released a sigh. "I've moved. It was all rather sudden."

A pleased look came over Joe's face, and then a guarded one. "Wait. Here?"

At Methos' nod, the pleased look held sway once more. "Well, I'll be damned."

"I highly doubt it," Methos answered loftily. "Too good an influence on everyone. Poor, unsuspecting souls, the lot of them."

Joe eyed him in a queer manner and sidled forward cautiously. "Forgive me for asking but are you alright? You seem _happier_. Than usual." His eyebrow rose in a vaguely fearful way. Methos couldn't help the snort that came.

"Believe it or not, Joe, I am happy. Indubitably." He swiveled on the stool, back and forth in wide arcs.

"Uh huh." Joe rested on his elbow against the bar, looking completely the provider of libation and advice. There was just something there, wasn't there? Intangible and coveted, and all mortal. "What is it, my shining presence?"

"Joe, have you ever noticed how beautiful this city is? Really noticed it?"

Now Joe was definitely looking at him funny. His eyes flicked to the pint and back up. "Okay, I know for a fact that you've only had one so far…"

Methos leaned back and spread his hands. "What can I say, Joe? I'm in a homecoming mood."

Joe straightened with a body-encompassing sigh. "Call me sentimental, but you have no idea how good it feels to hear you call this place home. You've been away for too long, old man." The hand that gripped his arm felt warm and youthful. "I ain't getting any younger."

There weren't many hurts able to break through his effervescent mood. This one did it easily. It was also easy to push it down again, here, now, with Joe standing right in front of him, living and breathing. "Well. That's why I'm here. This city is populated with far too much youth. I figured I'd add a few millennia to its load."

Joe smirked. He grabbed a cloth and began wiping down the bar. "World watch out. Methos is in town."

"You've certainly become cynical in your old age," Methos countered, taking a drink. Damn, even the beer tasted better this time. "Where's the apocalypse? So much to enjoy in life!"

"You are officially starting to worry me." Joe snapped his fingers. "Oh, wait, I got it. Being chased, right? I should be waiting breathlessly by my phone for news of new arrivals? Damn. Have to close up the bar…"

Methos glowered. "And this is the welcome I get. Surely someone in this city is glad I'm here."

Joe let out a bark of laughter. He leaned against the bar again, cloth in hand. "Seriously, though. There's only one here, but she's no threat. Should I be calling Mac?"

"Oh, is he in town?" Methos swirled his drink.

Joe's eyes narrowed. "Well, if you wanted to talk to him, all you had to do was ask."

"Ah," Methos said, and maybe his lofty attitude wasn't quite as convincing as it could have been, "no hurry. I'm an official resident now after all." He spread his arms again, pint in hand, and matched Joe's smile. "I've got all the time in the world."

Joe lifted a half-full water bottle from behind the bar and clinked it against Methos' pint. "Here's to homecoming friends indeed."

* * *

It was well into dusk when Methos decided it was high time to enter Duncan MacLeod's personal bubble. He was ready, after all, and he could almost feel it coming, even though he was fairly sure Joe hadn't called Duncan and informed him of current visitors.

"Not visitors," Methos corrected, rubbing his hands to shove out the cold as he strode down toward the river. "Residents. Neighbors, actually."

Duncan ought to be happy about the change in status, at least. The man had a difficult time handling the flighty habits of the people in his life. It was no small wonder MacLeod had never considered that the problem might be with himself and not with them at all. After all, the majority ruled, and Duncan was probably the only Immortal in existence who had such rigid standards to meet in terms of residence. Paris, Seacouver. Seacouver, Paris. Paris and, what was it again, oh, yes, Seacouver. It was ridiculous for him to chastise people like Amanda and Methos— his friends, for goodness' sakes— about their wanderlust. Methos sniffed.

Then again, old dogs could learn new tricks, it seemed.

He'd spent the afternoon basking in Joe's endless vigor, sharing a few drinks and discussing the new and improved bar. It felt good to give Joe all the details on his former abode in Turkey, his recent travels to East Asia, and his absolutely flawless ability to avoid all things Game. _The trick,_ he'd said, sipping his third pint, _is to stop thinking like an Immortal. Then you won't end up where they all end up._

Joe argued that it didn't seem quite that simple, considering. But it really, really was. Somehow. Methos wasn't sure of the details, just that in his case it had a habit of working.

When the bar officially opened for business, pouring people in through the doors from the streets outside, Methos had risen, embraced Joe in a manner that surprised him and felt just a bit more permanent than he was used to, and excused himself.

 _Have to go announce my presence to MacLeod, don't I?_

Joe's face sobered just a touch. _Yeah, I guess you do. If he's not busy—_

 _Busy?_

Joe hesitated, then smiled and shook his head. _Doesn't matter. Don't be a stranger around these parts, you hear?_

Methos fully intended not to be. It wasn't as if he'd consciously avoided his friends before. Well, he supposed there was a little of that, but it was more a lack of doing anything than a serious effort not to do anything. There was a difference. Still, it was strange, and a little invigorating, to feel the absence of that now.

Methos walked the route to the Seine with energized steps. The night air was comfortable, pushed into motion by the river. Duncan was definitely home: the windows were all lit. Methos stopped and stood for a moment, thinking on what it would be like to cut the barge free and sail down the Seine. He wondered if Duncan had ever tried it, if maybe there were rules that forbade that sort of luxury, and then figured it would hardly matter if there were. Duncan was a stickler about some things but definitely not all things; Methos was willing to bet that this was an idea he could convince his friend to try.

He felt the rush of Immortal Presence as soon as he stepped off the last step from the bridge. Whistling, Methos meandered up to the barge, mounted the ladder, and knocked, trying not to wonder whether the opening door might reveal hostility rather than welcome.

The door opened cautiously, and then a startled exclamation erupted from within. The door swung wide and hit the wall inside with a thump. "Me— Ad— _You!_ "

Duncan's expression screwed up so comically that Methos had to laugh. Had to. "Me, indeed, Highlander."

A grin spilled widely onto Duncan's face and Methos forgot all his nagging fears of an unwelcome reception— what? He had gotten them before, hadn't he?— and grinned back.

"Aaron," Methos supplied, almost as an afterthought, and his counterpart shook his head.

"Doesn't matter." Duncan stepped through the door and wrapped both arms around Methos so tightly he stopped breathing. "My god, don't you ever call when you're coming to visit?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to correct Duncan about being a visitor, but Methos bravely staved it off. There would be grander times for surprises, especially ones that might… be welcome? Duncan let him go, but left his hands clasping Methos' shoulders. It was startling to see the Highlander so—

Happy.

Yes, that was definitely it. Methos had forced himself to get used to the absence of that smile, to the new cynicism that took its place. He'd given himself time to mourn for what had been lost in the more youthful Immortal, but suspected that Duncan had never given himself the same option. He still insisted on fighting for what was dead and gone. Except that apparently it wasn't.

It was nice to feel so enriched by being wrong.

"Thought I'd drop by unannounced. As I am so fond of doing." He shrugged and Duncan laughed. It was bloody infectious, damn the man. But it was time to be infected by something other than anxiety. "Held off for an entire day, you know."

"Oh—" Duncan's face lit up even more, if that were possible, and he gestured behind him. It clicked for Methos, without enough time to be properly appalled, just why Duncan's Presence was so strong. Duncan turned back to the door, all smiles. "This is Marianna. She's a special friend of mine, been visiting for about a week."

"Special friend," Methos repeated dully, and then the most scrumptiously beautiful auburn-haired forest sprite stepped into view, all long legs and slender shoulders and green eyes and olive skin. She smiled prettily, if a little uncertainly, and extended a hand with elegant fingernails.

"Marianna's from southern France," Duncan supplied. "And this is Aaron. A close friend from… well, just about everywhere."

His manners kicked in despite his blank mind; Methos took her hand, lifting it to his lips. "A pleasure," he said politely. Her face relaxed in a way that told him all too well about wanting to be acceptable to Duncan's compatriots.

"It's nice to meet you," she responded with a sweet laugh.

Duncan MacLeod looked pleased as pie at the exchange.

And this charming, charming creature couldn't be more than a few years Immortal, at the most. Methos could smell her youth, as if it were a perfume she wore. Eau d'Innocent. He wanted to laugh. He wondered if she knew what a dangerous world she'd stepped into, if she were trained, or if— oh horrors— Duncan were training her.

Had he decided to take on a new student? Or a companion of another sort?

Methos' chest cinched on him, pushing out the air he was so desperate for. He felt like he was wearing blinders, the world dimming to this small circle of three in the doorway of a rocking barge on a river.

"Well, come in, old man," Duncan said, and the two of them stepped aside. "Have a drink with us."

Methos almost lifted his foot— god, he wanted to come in, it was almost a vital need— and then remembered himself and the frazzled state of his mind. "Actually, I just came from Joe's. Think I've had quite enough to drink for the evening."

Duncan laughed, then mock-scowled at him. "You saw Joe first? That wounds me."

"It does not, you spoiled infant," Methos returned, and Duncan looked even happier. Good god, there were people in third world countries who weren't happy because of Duncan stealing it all for himself.

"You're right." Duncan turned to Marianna. "Joe's a mutual friend of ours. But I knew him first."

Ah, so he hadn't taken her to meet his Watcher. Methos wondered if she knew what a Watcher was. The look in her eyes as she gazed at Duncan made Methos sway. He stepped back before he could fall off the barge. "Well, I don't want to interrupt your evening, so…"

Duncan's hand shot out and grabbed his arm. "Now wait just a second, I haven't seen you in two years."

Methos stared at Duncan's hand where it gripped him for a long, blank moment, then took it in both of his. "Trust me, I'll be around. I'm not leaving anytime soon."

Duncan's eyes flickered like he wasn't so sure. Methos couldn't blame him. He let go of Duncan's hand and smirked. "And you've got company anyway, of the loveliest sort."

Marianna laughed and smiled at Methos with open adoration. Damn. It was going to be difficult to hate this one.

"I'm taking Marianna to dinner," Duncan said. "Why don't you come along? We're touring the city; it's her first visit, would you believe that?"

Actually, no. He wouldn't. "Oh— no, I couldn't impose. And, you know. Jetlag."

After a second, Duncan nodded. "Alright. But _don't_ go anywhere. You hear me? I will hunt you down. You know I have the resources for it."

"I shudder to think," Methos answered wryly. He shoved his hands into his pockets and started backward down the stairs. "It was lovely to meet you, Marianna. You two have a good evening."

"Joe's on Wednesday?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "See you then."

He turned, and was almost down to the quay when Duncan's voice followed him. "Welcome back, old man."

Methos' feet halted. He smiled back over his shoulder.

* * *

He did not go home.

Methos shoved the door of Le Blues Bar open with one outstretched arm, dragged himself through dim light, smoky air and appallingly perfect guitar all the way to the bar. He dropped onto a lone stool, hunched over, and stared blankly at the colorful bottles lining the counter. "What's your strongest? I'll take the lot. As in, right now."

Joe looked taken aback, eyes wide. "Now there's the Methos I know," he said softly.

* * *

Of all the rubbish. Of all the rubbishy, horrid, two-faced, well-meaning things to do to a person.

Methos thought about opening his front door again just so he could slam it. His fingers were itching to slam something: a door, a cupboard, maybe even a window or two. Broken glass would be the cherry on top. Then he could call someone to fix it up and fork over more meaningless money, and begin the real process of living in a new abode all over again.

"Gods on _high_." He was crawling right out of his skin now— no, rather, his skin was crawling off of him, dying to be elsewhere, and he wanted to stomp, to rush, to throw something and increase the relative kinetic energy in the area, and for cripe's sake, what the hell was the matter with fate these days?

"Take her to _dinner_. Why don't you come _along?_ We're touring the _city_." That bastard already knew the damn city well enough to guide a herd of cats through it while blindfolded, legless, and completely drunk on Burgundy. "What in hell do you need to tour it again for?" Methos snapped at no one, whirling to face the general direction of Duncan's barge beyond the walls of his flat.

"Should have known," he muttered, pacing the room, fingers worrying the hem of his sleeve. "You should have expected this, you always get far too complacent about things—"

But bloody hell. Did it have to happen now? Now, when he was finally sure of something, when he thought he'd learned enough never to underestimate his friend, when he'd decided to give blind trust a try for the first time in centuries. Well, blind trust coupled with instinct, which he knew very well indeed. Or thought he knew.

"Blast it."

He wasn't the fool here. He wasn't. It was that damned man, insistent upon being charming all the time, making new friends, never even thinking that perhaps there was something left to do with the old ones. They had needs too, for gods' sake! Not just these gorgeously irritating Immortal women from the ends of the earth.

That was it. He'd simply challenge her and take her head, get rid of her, and his problem would be solved. Except for one tiny, insignificant detail.

Bloody Highlander.

Methos swore and shoved his shoes out of the way, flumping down on his bed.

Oh yes; this was shaping up to be a black, black mood.

* * *

It was what he deserved for letting his guard down one more time. Five thousand and something years should have been more than enough to teach him that lesson.

You know, there is such a thing as overreacting, Joe would have said gently, reaching to tap a finger on his arm. Except Methos wasn't about to tell Joe about his latest woe. Even if he was overreacting, even if he knew for a fact that Duncan's relationships rarely lasted long enough to count as permanent, except with a select few who wove their way so deeply into the very fabric of Duncan's soul that he gave them whatever 'forever' was available.

Debra. Little Deer. Tessa.

It was very rare indeed. And here Methos was, blithely slipping back into MacLeod's life as if he could control that particular character trait, bring it around to meet his desires, and weave himself a little swatch of space in that Immortal soul, if he could.

As if it would ever be so easy. If he hadn't done it already—

The door to the bar opened, letting in a gust of cold November air and one snow-speckled four-hundred-year-old man in a black coat. Brown eyes found their way around the bar before settling upon Methos. Duncan's smile appeared like a hearth fire's glow.

"Aaron," he hailed, and when he got close enough, "Methos."

The hand on Methos' back was warm and assured. It comforted, and that was the worst, given the current situation. Joe smiled his own greeting and settled back to let his flicking, absorbing eyes do the work for him.

"Mac," Methos said with a nod. Duncan's hand lifted away. He sat on the next stool over, leaning in companionably.

"I'm glad you're here." Still that huge smile. If Methos didn't know better, he'd have thought Duncan had won something. "I was hoping you would be, I mean. Afraid you might leave," Duncan finished with a strained chuckle.

"Oh," Joe said loftily, "you'd think that, wouldn't you?"

Duncan's eyebrows came together, but Methos didn't feel like getting into sordid details. "Haven't left yet, MacLeod," he inserted brightly. "Why? Need some information? Ancient insight into current events?"

"Ha ha." Duncan smirked. "Actually, I'm taking Marianna to see the Louvre, and I wanted to ask you to join us."

Never mind that he'd already seen it, dozens of times. Never mind that Duncan knew that. It didn't seem to matter, and Methos felt a jerk of wistfulness in his gut upon realizing that he would love to approach it as new, to forget all the times before and see it once more. In Duncan's company, with Duncan's insights. The potential for discussion, for argument, was tantalizing beyond belief.

Except.

"Mac, I'm afraid I've seen it so often I've pictures of the blueprints needled into my eyelids," he said blandly.

Duncan's expression drooped and Methos felt an irritating urge to salve the wound. "But by all means, if she hasn't seen it, take her. It's not to be missed."

Again, the smile warmed. "Meet us for dinner after? I'm taking her to Fantine's Bistro."

An excellent choice, one that had Methos both salivating and grousing to himself over the complete mess of timing. "Thank you for the invite. But I'm afraid I have plans."

He smiled, as longtime practice in the face of disappointment allowed, and Duncan's expression went a little resigned. The man gazed at him for a few seconds, then opened his mouth as if to say something further. Then rose and patted Methos' back again. The touch was all too fleeting.

"Alright, old man," he said. "Have a good evening. But I've got you for beers later this week, right?"

"Right," Methos answered, forcing amusement. "It's a date."

"Better be. Goodnight, Joe, have a good one." With a wave, Duncan walked to the door and let himself back out into the afternoon.

Methos didn't realize he was staring after him until Joe bumped his arm with another pint. "What's one more visit to the Louvre?"

Methos rolled his eyes. "One too many, that's what."

Joe was far too crafty. Damn these observant Watchers. "Yeah, but you _want_ to go. I can tell."

"Thank you, but I'd rather not be accompanied by a brand new baby Immortal who fawns over my friend as much as she fawns over the statuary." It came out on a wave of far too much bitterness.

"What gives? You never cared about women fawning over Mac before."

Methos flicked at his tumbler and hurt his fingertips. He stuck them into his mouth, cursing. "Hardly the point, Joe."

Something far too simple clicked in Joe's face. He stared for a single heartbeat, and then his mouth opened cannily. "No… no, you don't even like the idea." Joe pointed a finger at him, eyes wide. " _You_ told Mac it was too much of a commitment!"

"Well, I'm changing my own rules!" Methos grouched, hunching his shoulders and wishing whoever had invented blushing would just fall off the face of history. And apparently, he still pouted, after all these centuries.

Joe was grinning. Shaking his head and grinning.

Annoying old bastard.

* * *

Ringing woke Methos at godawful o'clock. He nearly jumped up to answer the door before he realized it was the phone. "Yeah."

"Aaron, it's Joe."

"Joe?" His muscles tightened. "Something wrong?"

It was quiet on Joe's end, so the bar must be closed. Or maybe Joe was at home. But why call him Aaron then? Unless the Watchers were now bugging his phone or—

"Wanted to give you a heads up. Another Immortal just arrived in town."

So Joe was at headquarters. God, it was too late for this. Methos stifled a yawn. "Anyone I should be concerned about?"

"Hard to tell at this point. Name's Emery. He's scuffled with a few Immortals including Connor MacLeod, but that was centuries ago. His current Watcher has him at just over four hundred years old. Tall guy, red hair."

"You give Mac a call, yet?"

"Just about to." Joe sighed. "Just… stay alert, okay?"

"Will do. And Joe, thank you."

"Welcome." Joe laughed a little. "Now go back to sleep, you lazy bum."

"Don't think it counts as laziness at three in the morning," Methos sniped, and hung up.

* * *

Drinks on Wednesday took on an entirely new flavor in light of the way Joe kept glancing back and forth between Methos and Duncan, smirking. Naturally, Duncan was too unassuming to even notice. Which was nice because it meant he didn't notice every time Methos tried to glare Joe into the ground either.

They both ordered Pilsner malts and Joe whistled. "And they like the same lager."

Duncan frowned. "It's what we always get, Joe."

Joe's eyebrows rose meaningfully. "Yeeeeeeep," he drawled, popping the 'p' at the end. He went off to serve another customer. Duncan stared after him, bemused.

"Dementia, MacLeod," Methos muttered, feeling entirely unforgiving.

Duncan smacked his arm. "So. How long you staying in Paris?"

Well, damn, he might as well. "Moved here, actually."

He wasn't expecting to feel thrilled by his revelation anymore, but Duncan smiled so wide that it fluttered in Methos' belly. "Seriously? You moved to Paris?"

"Seriously," Methos answered, keeping his voice flat. "I moved to Paris."

"That's…" Duncan nodded and took a sip of his pint. "That's very interesting."

But Methos could see the glee vibrating just under the surface, and damn it if it wasn't making him feel a little gleeful himself. "Believe me, no one is as shocked as I am."

"I'm pretty damn shocked," Duncan argued.

"Yes, but everything shocks you."

Duncan laughed. He clapped Methos on the shoulder and then left his hand there, hot through Methos' shirt. "When it comes to you? Hell yes."

"Well, good. I'm glad I still have some power over you."

Duncan's eyes softened. They skirted over Methos' face. "You're a powerful man, Methos."

Now Methos felt a little shaken and he wasn't sure why. He returned to his lager in desperation, and when he came up for air, things were a little steadier.

Duncan launched into a summary of the last two years— when Methos had seen him last, they were both in Beijing, Methos for a little R&R, Duncan on the trail of a kamikaze Immortal intent on blowing up some building somewhere, and it hadn't exactly been a stress-free encounter— and Methos settled back to listen, genuinely interested in every word out of Duncan's mouth. His friends usually genuinely interested him; they were his friends after all. But the energy simmering under Methos' skin was headier than normal, and it hurt just a little.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, his belongings trickled in from Turkey, and Duncan came over to help him carry the heavier items upstairs. Methos might have called to invite him in a moment of weakness, but he also invited Joe so he didn't feel too self-conscious about it. Joe sat on a stool at the kitchen counter with a glass of soda, and delegated while Methos and Duncan shoved and heaved things around the apartment.

"Yeah, I don't think the Feng Shui's right in your guest area," Joe called. "The vibe is all wrong."

"Quiet in the peanut gallery," Duncan hollered back. Methos nearly dropped his end of the settee trying not to laugh. Joe _did_ laugh, however, and Methos and Duncan spent the next trip down to the curb grinning at each other.

"I'm sticking him in storage if he keeps this up," Methos griped.

Duncan nodded sagely. "I've got a shed you can use. No charge."

Joe had glasses of cold water and even colder beer waiting when they got back upstairs, so Methos put the plan on hold.

Duncan downed his water in one go, then collapsed onto the bed. "I need a break."

Methos sat on the edge of the bed, feeling oddly out of place in his own apartment. Duncan's limbs were all spread out, right leg and arm dangling off the side of the mattress. His eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell in one gigantic sigh. "Mmm."

Methos looked away, taking a quick gulp of water. Should have grabbed the beer first.

Duncan tugged at his shirt. "Oh my god, he's sitting upright. What is wrong with the world?"

Methos huffed. " _Someone's_ taking up all the sprawling space."

Duncan heaved himself up and patted the bed. "Sprawl, old man. Sprawl. Quick, before I think you're an imposter."

He must have hesitated too long because Duncan reached over, swiped his glass, and pushed him firmly in the middle of his chest. Methos flopped back onto the bed, heart pounding much too fast. He stared up at Duncan, watching the man drink the rest of his water. "Ingrate."

Duncan grinned down at him. "Sure am."

The clicking of Joe's cane sounded and he appeared around the edge of the Japanese screen that partitioned off the bedroom area. "Aw, naptime?"

Joe's eyes were too tender, too knowing, surveying the scene. His gaze fell on Methos and the smile that quirked his lips…

Methos jumped up from the bed, feeling lightheaded. "Still my couch to bring up," he managed, and left the room before Duncan or Joe could comment.

* * *

"Yeah, this one's gonna be trouble," Joe announced, looking particularly grim as he passed them on his way down the bar. Duncan frowned, staring at the basket of potato wedges in front of him.

"Who is he, anyway?"

Duncan sighed. "Stephen Emery, originally from Guernsey, currently well-traveled. He was a headhunter three centuries ago, but I have no idea if that's still the case."

"Yes, but they're all headhunters, MacLeod," Methos said peevishly. "More detail, if you would."

"This one went after newborn Immortals, including me. I was barely fifty years immortal. But he came up against Connor and got himself out of there before a challenge was made."

Methos grimaced. "Sounds like a fun sort."

"Yeah, well, he can only have gotten better," Duncan growled. "Who knows if he has any limitations on who he fights nowadays?"

Methos didn't want to bring it up, but he couldn't keep his conscience silent. "Marianna still in town?"

"Yeah." Consternation wove its way through Duncan's voice. "I need to get her out before he finds her, but she's got nowhere to go."

"Where's she staying now?"

"With me," Duncan answered. "Of course. Not going to let her wait alone in a hotel for him."

Methos pushed his pint away. "Of course."

* * *

Joe called him a few days later to tell him that Duncan had taken Marianna out of the city. "Emery found her. God knows how. Maybe he just walks around and around until he senses another Immortal, and then does a little victory dance."

"Is she alright?" Methos forced himself to ask. His books in all their glory had just arrived, the last of his belongings from Istanbul. One of them lay across his lap, the unabridged works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, which he loved with all his heart, and now… now he just didn't feel like reading it.

"She's fine. He attacked them at the barge. I don't think he was expecting Mac to be there."

Dread bloomed in Methos' gut. He cleared his throat. "Wait. Did he… Is MacLeod—"

Joe laughed. "Emery couldn't touch Mac, even if he wanted to, don't worry."

Methos felt like an idiot. Naturally, if Duncan had gotten Marianna out of the city, he wasn't dead. Still, Methos couldn't get the sense of unease to dissipate. "Joe—"

"Mac wasn't injured."

Methos wanted to ask more, but he couldn't. He couldn't get the words to come.

"He's coming back, Aaron," Joe said softly. "I'm sure he is."

"Right." Maybe. Possibly. After he and Marianna lived a lifetime of love and revolting happiness together.

"Hey—"

"I'm just irritated," Methos interrupted in his snootiest tone. "He didn't think I might need to be smuggled out, did he? It hurts."

Joe chuckled. "I imagine because he thinks you can take care of yourself."

Yes, but what if he didn't _want_ to take care of himself? It was kind of nice, being looked after by someone else. Methos' eyes widened. Oh god, he'd just gone certifiably insane. "Assumptions, assumptions."

Joe was quiet for a little while. "Speaking of assumptions, it might not be what you think. Him and Marianna."

"You've studied him for years, Joe. Do you honestly believe that?"

Joe didn't answer.

* * *

He called Duncan's cell phone three times over the next three days and left one aborted message wherein he hung up before he could say much beyond 'How are you?'

It hardly mattered because Duncan did not call back.

* * *

The universe hated him. Methos knew it for sure this time.

"I come back to Paris, no, I bloody well _move_ back to Paris, just in time to watch Duncan MacLeod pick up another lifelong love."

Joe was starting to look less sympathetic and more world-weary. He was still Johnny on the spot with the beer, though. "My friend, I think a good dose of Tibetan throat singing is in order."

"He told you about that?"

Joe smiled. "Yep. Think you impressed him."

Methos grunted. "If by 'impressed' you mean 'irritated'."

Joe raised an eyebrow. "Well, I don't."

"I don't even know what I was thinking." Methos slumped down onto the bar and buried his face in his hands.

"Hey." Joe touched his shoulder lightly. "You were thinking like someone in—"

"Don't even say it, Joe."

He could feel Joe's shrug. "Happens to all of us."

"Yeah, well, you can keep it."

This time Joe bopped him on the head, startling him upright. "Why don't you just talk to him, huh? It would save you some heartache."

Methos just glared at him. Joe snorted. "Alright, then it would save me some bellyaching. Ever think of that?"

"Joe, you know I thrive on making your life more difficult. It's so very trendy these days." He tried to sound droll, he really did, but from the look on Joe's face, he must have come across as suicidal.

"Hey." Joe leaned over the bar, clasping Methos' arm. "Hey, Methos, you're really gone over him, aren't you?"

"What I really am is in need of more liquor," he countered loudly. Thankfully the bar was empty because he was planning to make a right ass of himself, possibly to the point of not being able to make his way home. "Shots, please. Highest alcohol content you've got."

Joe straightened up. "Aaron," he warned.

"Joe," Methos warned right back.

An hour later, Methos was still ranting, and now he was slurring while doing so. Oh, happy day.

"Why the hell do we have to metabolize alcohol so fast?" he complained. "Why can't we just get bloody hammered like normal mortal people?"

Joe took yet another quick glance around the empty bar and sighed. He'd given up answering a while ago.

"I swear, I'm writing this entire thing off. Should have done it a long time ago, but no, I was _curious_. Seemed like such a nice guy, oh yes, Methos, your heart will be perfectly safe because there's no way he could ever not be so annoying you'd fall for him. Pompous, self-righteous, ridiculous boy scout, worming his way into my life like that, making me feel things again. See, this is what happens when you have friends. I was perfectly content to go through life without a conscience. Or maybe not without a conscience, but without caring about the fates of others, don't you understand?"

He was back to pints and his newest lager did not answer. No matter. Methos had plenty more to say.

"Forget him, forget he ever existed, I'm going back to my hermitage— no, I'm going back to my apartment first, and then I'm catching the next plane out of this idiotic city so I can go live with the only person who will never turn his back on me, and that's me, alright? Me. I love me. Me loves me. It's the best match in the known world."

Joe did open his mouth this time, but before he could say anything, Presence roared up Methos' spine and he stiffened, then spun on the stool, nearly tumbling off. Joe knew well enough what to look for and curbed whatever he'd been about to say. Methos' first thought was that Duncan had returned and his heart leapt like a little drunken bunny in his chest. But it didn't feel like Duncan. Methos knew what Duncan felt like, ever since the _incident_ in Bordeaux, and this was not Duncan.

The door banged open and Joe swore softly behind him. A tall Immortal man strode in, sword already leaning against his shoulder. Methos squinted at red hair and a million freckles.

"You can't come in here with that," Joe admonished.

"Then maybe he can come out," the Immortal said, pointing one gloved finger at Methos.

Oh, this was just _too_ funny. Methos snorted and turned back to the bar. "No, don't think I will. Thanks, toodle pip and all that."

There was an awkward silence behind him. Joe's expression was wary. Methos could see him feeling around for the gun under the bar. The Immortal spoke up. "Do you even know who I am?"

"Dr. Livingstone, I presume," Methos offered with a grandiose wave. Joe actually had to hide a smile. Methos downed the rest of his pint and helped himself off the stool. Swayed a little, but hey, his metabolism was already kicking in overtime.

Emery, as this person no doubt was, glowered at him rather ferociously. "And what's your name? So I know who I'm challenging."

"Ha!" Methos burst out. "You? You're not a challenge, you wet blanket. Can't you see when a man's trying to get thoroughly plastered, you ignorant, pretentious, ignominious—"

Emery bristled even more. "I will not be spoken to in this manner!"

"—loutish, fractious cretin?" Methos finished, pleased with himself for not messing up any of the syllables.

Emery just gaped at him.

Methos put on his jacket and picked up his sword, spinning it once before sliding it back into place in his coat. He slapped money down on the bar hard enough to rattle his empty glass. "Well, the company just got detestable. Night, Joe."

"Wait a minute, I'm challenging you!"

Methos smirked, chuckled, then outright laughed. He patted Emery on the arm as he passed. "Don't be ridiculous, I'd wipe the bloody floor with you. Why don't you try Canada? I hear they're not as blunt about it over there."

He left Emery with his jaw working soundlessly and let himself out. The cold night air perked him up enough to realize that hailing a cab was more intelligent than walking home, especially with idiot Immortals in the vicinity and considering the fact that Methos was pretty sure he counted four of his own feet on the sidewalk. He made it around the corner and caught the next cab to roll along, gave his address, and concentrated on staying conscious long enough to get inside his apartment.

* * *

He succeeded, astonishingly. He even managed to get out of his clothes and into his pajama pants before crashing face down on his bed. He fell asleep thinking that if there was one nice thing about being an Immortal, it was that he never got hangovers.

* * *

Methos stood in a field, and there were violets and sunflowers and an Immortal.

"Oh," he said by way of greeting. "Salutations."

The Immortal stuck his tongue out, took hold of a giant cucumber, and struck Methos' leg mid-calf. It pinged away with a weird, tingly thud.

"No, no, my head, you imbecile, aim for my neck," Methos said, frowning. The Immortal hefted the cucumber and blinked at him stupidly.

"That's _just_ what I was planning," said a cold, disembodied voice.

Methos woke up. Looked up. Let his air out in a hard whoosh and shoved himself backward off the edge of the bed in time to avoid the glinting sword that crashed down, cutting his pillow into feathery halves.

It was too bright, the daylight almost blinding. The Immortal in his bedroom cursed. Methos would have put him to shame in that department, only his heart was completely blocking his throat.

He settled for rolling to his knees.

The Immortal stalked around the bed, red hair flying, and swung his sword again. Methos threw himself to the left, heard floorboards splinter, and looked up again.

"Emery," he gasped. "Don't you fucking know how to knock?"

Emery wheeled his blade back a third time. Methos lunged in the direction he remembered his sword being and didn't find it. His bare feet slipped and he landed flat on his back on the floor, knocking the wind out of himself. The humongous sword lodged itself into the boards a hairsbreadth from his hip. Emery swore again, struggling to tug his blade free.

Sparks danced before Methos' eyes. Was it the brightness or his brain? His legs wouldn't work, and he gasped for breath rather pathetically. Blinked. _Oh, holy brethren. In my bloody bedroom?_ Goodness. That was certainly going to give the Watchers a few belly-laughs.

Hell. It was even funny to him.

Suddenly another wash of breathlessness shoved at his body. It took him two full seconds to realize that it wasn't breathlessness at all but the presence of a third Immortal. A familiar one. Emery faltered, staring at him with his sword now high in the air, and then Methos' apartment door crashed open, spilling Duncan MacLeod into the room.

For some reason, the only word that entered Methos' head at that moment was _Soiree?_

The blade of Duncan's katana flashed ominously in the sunlight. In one instant, his eyes darted over the scene and darkened.

"Back off, Emery," Duncan snarled.

"MacLeod." The name was a startled bark. Emery's pale, freckly face went even paler. He jerked his sword down, tip pointed at Duncan. Methos hissed as the wind from the movement skittered over him. Being skewered by an absentminded downstroke was just a shade this side of pathetic. Besides, Methos had already had the pleasure. There was a reason he didn't talk about the Crusades.

"Damn you, Highlander," Emery growled. "Not your fight!"

"Not much of a fight at all, by the look of things," Duncan fired back. He jumped nimbly, closer to Methos. Emery lurched back. It was the most beautiful thing Methos had ever seen, and he'd seen a hell of a lot.

"Further, Emery." Duncan's eyes glinted. "Or you can spend the next few years re-growing your sword arm."

"Where are all your rules now, MacLeod?" Emery snapped, and Duncan's face twisted so completely that Methos lifted his head off the floor to get a better look.

"Don't you _dare_ , you bloody—" Duncan lunged forward, sword flashing up, and Emery cut wide and ran for the door, the ends of his coat flailing behind, sword swinging frenziedly. He slammed through the doorway. Duncan raced after him, face set. Methos heard Emery through the wall, and then his footsteps bumbling down the stairs. Duncan pulled up short in the doorway, breathing hard and gripping his sword hilt tightly enough to turn his hands white.

Methos let out a loud sigh and slumped back down onto the floor. "Well," he began, and then started over. "That was—" Again. "Good morning."

Duncan slammed the door shut with a spiteful bang as Emery's Presence faded. He looked down at Methos. "Are you still in one piece?" he asked, a little less stoic than usual.

Methos blinked and cricked his head back and forth. "I… Seems that way."

Some small weight sloughed off of the other man's shoulders. Duncan let his sword dangle and walked wearily across the room. He knelt down beside Methos. Methos stared up at him, for once feeling rather innocent.

"Good," Duncan said in a low voice. He cocked his head. "You just going to stay down there?"

Methos huffed. "I should think so. What are you doing here?"

Duncan raised his eyebrows. "Joe. Seems you were a royal arse last night. Again."

"Part of my charm," Methos sniffed. "And some people can't see that."

Duncan grinned at last. The change on his face was very nice indeed. "Emery's a coward. Problem is, he's an intelligent one."

"Bad combination," Methos observed. Duncan nodded, still gazing down at him.

"You have got to quit aggravating the younger generation, Methos." There was that familiar, chastising growl in Duncan's tone. "Myself notwithstanding. Joe called me right when my plane landed. I looked all over for you. Didn't get any sleep."

"Oh, my sincerest apologies, Mac," Methos returned, frowning. Visions of heaving bodies in a comfortable hotel bed— he knew it was damn well comfortable, he'd usurped Duncan's bed often enough to know he wouldn't settle for less— and feminine limbs draped just about everywhere filled his head. "I'm sure you've much better things to do than save my life. I'll try to accommodate you in the future."

"You do realize how close that was?" Duncan pressed.

Methos waved the man's hand away from his arm where it tried to settle. " _Yes_. Sorry to be such a bother. Why are you even here anyway?"

Duncan's smile quirked back to life, just before he hunkered down most gracelessly, planted a hand firmly on either side of Methos' head, and covered Methos' mouth with his own. Duncan's tongue darted, touched; Methos opened his lips without thinking, and the kiss… Oh, too short. Soft and needy, and too, too short.

Duncan pulled back, licking his lips, and smiled a hesitant, resigned smile. "That's why, old man."

Methos looked up at him for three full seconds. "Don't do that, MacLeod," he croaked. "Opening a box there."

"Methos? It's already open." And Duncan leaned down again and kissed him decisively. Methos went all weak in the knees. It was a rather nice bit of foresight to be lying down already.

He'd never been kissed by Duncan MacLeod before, and now he could see why everybody swooned over the man. Good lord— Methos shivered, reaching up, stopping himself, then reaching anyway to slide an arm around Duncan's neck. Duncan had a very talented tongue and he tasted like malted milk biscuits and suddenly Methos wanted tea, but not as much as he wanted to just do this for the next hour. It was Duncan, at last, but… it was _Duncan_. This meant things, big things, and Methos wasn't sure Duncan knew how big.

Duncan pulled back just a bit, their lips still touching. "Couldn't stand you without a head, old man," he whispered breathlessly.

"Don't play with me," Methos whispered back, barely hearing himself, hearing the stutter in his voice instead. Duncan's eyes deepened in a way that pricked Methos painfully. Arms wove beneath his shoulders, and there was a body up against him, warm and full and protective, and he was still in his bloody pajamas, he didn't even have a shirt on, and god, that felt good. This time he met the kiss and let himself bask in the thorough stroke of a tongue he'd long dreamt the taste of. He briefly he wondered what he'd say when this kiss finally ended.

And promptly decided that planning was highly overrated.

~fin~


End file.
